


Scars

by GillianInOz



Series: Bend But Do Not Break [3]
Category: Endeavour
Genre: M/M, Self Harm, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 22:42:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13913685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GillianInOz/pseuds/GillianInOz
Summary: Morse has begun his healing journey, but Thursday discovers that the road has been a rockier one than he could ever have guessed.





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for past and present self harm.

“This way!” Strange called, his boots skidding on the wet cobblestones as he rounded a corner. Morse and Thursday thudded along behind him, arriving at the alley entrance just as the big sergeant had the suspect cornered against the blind wall. 

“It’s all over, matey,” Strange said, holding his hands out towards the panting man. “Give it up now and let’s all get in out of the rain, all right?”

Thursday flanked Morse to block the only exit, looking with narrowed eyes at the sweating man wielding the large hunting knife.

“Put the knife down, Crawley,” Thursday ordered harshly, knowing this could go bad very quickly. Either they had an experienced old lag who’d put his hands up and take what was coming to him, all just a part of the business - or they were facing the kind of mad dog who literally wouldn’t give up until he had to be put down.

Crawley looked at the wall of coppers blocking him and something changed in his eyes. Thursday knew in that instant it was all going to go pear shaped. “Oh, bugger,” Thursday swore. 

Crawley roared, rushing them, and moving as one the three intercepted him, Thursday grabbing his knife arm and forcing it up with all his strength, Morse going for his legs in a flying tackle, and Strange grabbing his throat with one meaty hand and forcing his head back in a move that could have broken Crawley’s neck if he hadn’t gotten lucky.

Strange’s foot slipped on something that squelched under his boot and he slid, the momentum taking most of the force from his blow. In an instant Crawley had another, smaller knife in his free hand and he slashed wildly.

It took only an instant, but Morse was crying out and Thursday was twisting Crawley’s arm behind him so hard the suspect screamed and dropped his spare blade. 

“Strange,” Thursday ordered, but the big sergeant was already pulling Crawley’s other arm around and cuffing his hands behind his back.

“Morse? Did he get you?” Thursday dropped to his knees besides the younger man, who was panting and clutching at his inner thigh. 

“It’s not bad,” Morse gritted out, but he was gripping his lean thigh hard, and even in the dim light filtering through the pouring rain Thursday could see the blood dark against his pale fingers.

His own blood ran cold. “Let me see,” he said, pulling Morse’s hand away and ripping at the flapping trouser leg. 

“It’s all right,” Morse said, pushing back, almost frantic in his movements.

“Calm down,” Thursday said harshly. “And let me see. He could have nicked an artery, man.”

Strange had the suspect up on his feet. “Should I get an ambulance, sir?”

“It’s all right,” Morse insisted. In the distance they could hear whistles from the constables who’d been fanned out on the streets, waiting for Crawley to make an appearance. 

“Get help,” Thursday told him, and Strange dragged the prisoner to the mouth of the alley and bellowed to the flashing lights and calling voices down the street.

Thursday ignored Morse’s protests, and the younger man’s fingers slid and slipped in their own blood as they tried to push bigger hands away. With a rip the seams came apart and Thursday breathed a sigh of relief. The wound was a slice, not too deep, and far enough away from the artery…

Thursday frowned and pulled at the torn and bloody fabric, peering in the dim light, not even sure for a moment what he was seeing. Morse had stopped fighting him, had stopped moving completely, his blood smeared hands on Thursday’s, his eyes frozen and wide as Thursday tore his eyes away from his flesh and looked up at him, and then back down at the inside of Morse’s, pale, lean thigh.

Straight lines, running parallel, barely apart. Scars, a dozen maybe, some old and white, some red and still angry, their edges swollen and hot. But each one neat, two inches or so. No accident had caused these.

“What the hell?” Thursday looked up uncomprehendingly, meeting Morse’s wide, trapped gaze. “Morse?” And then, incredulously. “Did you do that to yourself?”

“Sir, do you need that ambulance?” Strange yelled from the mouth of the alley and Morse frantically pulled together the gaping seam of his trousers. Thursday sat back on his heels, the wind knocked out of him. 

“Is he okay?” Strange said as he approached.

“Just a shallow cut,” Morse was saying, and Strange reached out a hand and helped him to his feet while Thursday still kneeled, wondering if he’d been hit on the head and the last few minutes had all been a dream.

“All the same, matey,” Strange said. “That’s quite a bit of blood. Might need a few stitches.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Morse promised. “Sir?” he said tentatively, and Strange’s big hand came out and took Thursday’s elbow.

With a grunt Thursday found his feet, automatically brushing at the mud and detritus on his coat and knees. 

“All right, sir?” Strange asked anxiously, and Thursday blinked and focused on the two faces staring at him, one broad and frowning in concern, one lean and pale, wide eyes luminous in the dim light.

“Get that leg seen to,” he ordered Morse. “Drive him,” he ordered Strange, and then stomped off to see to the constables still milling around on the road around Crawley.

888

“I took him to Dr DeBryn,” Strange reported. “He insisted,” the sergeant said defensively as Thursday narrowed his eyes at him. “The doc said he’d drop him off at his flat afterwards.” Strange scratched his head. “He said DeBryn always patches him up, although why he’d go to a pathologist?” He shrugged.

Why indeed, Thursday thought.

888

Morse met him at the door, he stepped back and stood in the centre of the small room, arms crossed across his body, hands gripping his waist.

“You needn’t have come,” he said politely. “I’m fine. Just a few stitches.”

“Another scar to add to your collection?” Thursday said pointedly, and Morse stiffened even further.

“With all due respect, sir,” he said evenly. “That’s none of your business.”

“None of my business?” Thursday said in disbelief. “None of my business.” He took off his hat and slammed it on the table. “The hell it’s not my business! You’re doing that to yourself? How is that not my business?”

“It’s private,” Morse said stubbornly. “And anyway, it’s a moot point. I don’t… I’ve stopped.” He dropped his hands and straightened his shoulders. “I’ve stopped. It won’t happen again.”

“And I’m just supposed to take your word for it, I suppose?” Thursday demanded. “Turn a blind eye? I’m still trying to wrap my head around it happening in the first place. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t owe you any explanations,” Morse said coldly. “It doesn’t affect my work, so it’s none of your concern.”

“So you said,” Thursday flung back, just as coldly. “But I’ve only your word that it isn’t affecting your work. The balance of your mind is in question for one thing. For fuck’s sake,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Cutting yourself? What kind of crazy person –“

Morse, his face deathly pale, shook his head, turned away, and Thursday lost control. He grabbed the younger man’s shoulder to swing him back round, all his fear and helpless rage in the force of his big hand. 

With a hoarse cry Morse tore himself free, wrenching Thursday’s hand from his shoulder and stumbling back until he slammed against the bookshelves, volumes toppling with a crash to the floor.

Thursday felt a flush of shame engulf him as Morse stared at him, his eyes wide, pupils blown. “I’m sorry,” Thursday said. “Morse, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –“

“Please just go,” Morse said shakily, and to his shame Thursday actually considered it for a moment, leaving all this helpless rage and fear behind, going back out into the night, back to his cosy home and his family. 

“No,” he said, knowing that walking away now wasn’t really an option. It was all way too late for that.

Morse still looked panicked and on the edge of flight, as if he’d have already run if he wasn’t trapped in a small bedsit with a big man. Aware that he was looming, Fred took a step back and sat down slowly by the table, never taking his eyes from Morse’s frozen face. “I’m sorry, Morse, but no. I can’t just leave you like this.”

Morse blinked, and then looked down at the books around his feet, a hand coming up to rub his shoulder where he’d collided with the shelves. “Shit,” he said shakily. “I’m such a bloody mess.”

“Did you hurt yourself?” Thursday asked awkwardly, but Morse just lifted his head and stared at him.

“You called me crazy,” he said starkly.

Thursday took a few deep breaths, trying to settle his heart back down to some kind of normal rhythm. He felt shaky and chilled, like he’d suffered a terrible shock. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t think you’re crazy.”

Morse just stared at him from the wreckage of his book case, his eyes still accusing.

“I think you’re right though,” Thursday said honestly. “I think you’re pretty messed up. But not crazy, not any more than usual anyway.”

The hurt faded away and Morse’s tight lips slowly relaxed. Finally he huffed a choked sort of laugh, shaking his head. “How do you always do this to me?” Morse implored seriously. “How do you always get under my skin?”

“Look who’s talking,” Thursday retorted, relief flooding through his veins. Morse glanced at him with a small frown. “You’ve been under my skin since the moment we met. And you know it.”

Morse looked at him a moment more, then carefully stepped over the books and sat on the side of his bed. “I suppose I do,” he admitted wearily.

“It happens,” Thursday admitted. “But not so often in your life that you can afford to ignore it when it does.”

Morse tilted his head, his pallor fading a little. “What happens?” he asked curiously.

Thursday shrugged. “You meet someone you click with. Who matches up with you.”

“I can hardly think of two men more different than you and I,” Morse pointed out. 

“True,” Thursday acknowledged. “But here we are. You’ve been… a light in my life since our first case together.” He shrugged. “I’m not an introspective man by nature, so I haven’t worried about it overmuch.”

“I only stayed in Oxford because of you,” Morse said, and Thursday nodded. “I only stayed in the job because of you,” Morse continued and Thursday nodded again, soberly.

“Not without cost,” he said sadly, and Morse looked away, his own face sad.

“I’m sorry I grabbed you just then,” Thursday said. “More sorry than I can say.”

“You just startled me, that’s all. It’s not you. I know you’d never hurt me.”

“Coming here? Shouting the odds? Sticking my big nose into your private business?”

Morse gazed at him, quirked a small smile. “If not you, then who? You’re the only one who cares enough to.”

“I just need to understand, Morse,” Thursday said carefully. “Because I’ll tell you the truth, right now I’m scared to death.”

“Scared?”

“And so far out of my depth I’m drowning,” Thursday admitted. 

“Oh.” Morse heaved a tired sigh. “That.”

“If you could just try to explain it to me,” Thursday said tentatively. 

Morse lifted his hands in a shrugging, helpless gesture. “I don’t know if I can,” he admitted. 

“Well, let’s see what we can sort out then. Did you… You did that to yourself, didn’t you?” Thursday asked, and Morse looked down and finally, slowly, nodded.

“With a razor?” Thursday probed, trying not to let the horror he felt at the very thought show in his voice. 

Morse nodded again. 

“Some of the scars looked old. How old?”

“It started when I was young, after my mother died,” Morse said, still looking down. “Everything was so grey, so grim. I didn’t have anyone to even talk to about her, my step mother wouldn’t have her name mentioned in the house.”

“Sounds lonely,” Thursday prompted, when Morse was silent for a time.

“When there’s so much pain inside you,” Morse said softly, as if he hadn’t heard Thursday speak. “When it’s so big and black that you feel like you’re going to just shatter into a million pieces…” He looked at Thursday then, almost as if in apology. “I thought about just… ending it,” he confessed.

Thursday’s heart clenched in his chest.

“But I didn’t want to die,” Morse said. “I didn’t want to just stop being, even though I knew that no one would miss me, or even care. I thought about my mother, and how she worked so hard to keep us together after she left my father. And I knew if I gave in that I’d be letting her down, and I didn’t want to do that. She’d had enough people do that to her when she was alive.”

Like mother like son, Thursday thought sadly.

“I don’t know why I even thought of the razor, the first time,” Morse said, frowning as he looked back. “I just knew I needed to stop the pain, take control, feel something real. Feel like I was real.”

“By hurting yourself?”

Morse looked up and met his eyes. “Yes,” he said starkly. “By hurting myself. And it worked too, it really did. That… rush, that feeling that I was finally in control, of something. It seemed to mute the other pain, the pain inside. Afterwards I felt that I could breathe again, that I could get through the next day, the next week.”

“But?”

Morse shrugged. “But the feeling always came back. And the... the relief, it started lasting less and less time. I was out of control for a while, I understand that, I knew it at the time.”

“So what happened?”

“Music,” Morse said simply. “I was with a teacher after school, Mr Blythe. He used to let me borrow his books and we’d sit in the garden and talk about them. One day he put a record on, said he thought I’d like it. Rosalind Calloway,” Morse finished. He got up, went to the kitchen and took down two glasses.

“Calloway,” Thursday said, remembering Morse’s grief and guilt over the Mary Tremlett case, their first case together.

“She saved my life,” Morse said simply, and he poured two glasses and fetched one to Thursday, who accepted it gratefully, glad to have something to do with his hands.

“No wonder that all hit you so hard,” Thursday said, and took a drink.

“The music filled something in me, filled the dark, empty places where the pain had been. When I listened to the… the passion, the glory, the joy in those voices… I was swept clean.”

They drank for a few moments in silence.

“So you just stopped hurting yourself?”

Morse nodded. “I just stopped. Maybe I was growing out of it anyway, I don’t know. Years later when I’d catch a glimpse of the old, faded lines, I was just incredulous that I’d ever been so foolish. Sad for that lonely little boy.”

“But you’ve done it again, since?”

“No, I didn’t, that’s the thing. For years it was just a depressing memory. Even after… Oxford, after I abandoned my degree, ran away. It never occurred to me to start again.” He laughed a not very pleasant laugh. “Although to be honest I was still finding ways to self harm. Drink, mainly. Drugs never appealed, thank god. I never liked the idea of losing my senses. But I could drink to ease the pain, drink to find some rest. Not much different from the cutting, really.”

Thursday wanted to protest, but he couldn’t marshal a good enough argument. He’d known men crawl into the bottle and not crawl out, but that didn’t compare to taking a razor to their own flesh, did it? He was still drowning in all this, he didn’t know what to say, what to do. Was he making it worse? God help him, had he made it worse the last time he was here with Morse? What the hell had he been thinking, taking a traumatised man to bed? 

“I ought to be shot,” he muttered to himself into his glass.

Morse looked up at him, startled. “What?”

“Never mind,” Thursday said. “Go on with your story.”

“No,” Morse said with a frown, dropping down in the seat opposite. “What do you mean? None of this is your fault, sir. None of it,” he stressed. 

“I laid hands on you,” Thursday said thickly. “My friend, in need of help, and I-”

“But you did help me!” Morse interrupted fiercely. “You did. You knew just what to do. You made me feel again, made me feel real again, and not like I was just some thing to be used. Please tell me you understand that?” he implored.

“All right, all right,” Thursday said, reaching out one hand across the table. Morse grasped it gratefully, squeezing his fingers tightly. 

“It’s how I could stop again,” Morse said insistently. “I haven’t even thought about doing it again, since… since you were here last.”

“But you had started again,” Thursday said carefully. “After Witney.”

“When even the alcohol stopped working,” Morse said, looking down at their clenched hands. “A few times. It wasn’t the same though. It was more like a punishment than a release.”

“Punishing yourself?” Thursday said, aghast. “Oh, Morse.” He leaned across the table, covering Morse’s trembling hand with both his now. “Oh, lad,” he said helplessly. “What am I going to do with you?” 

“Stay?” Morse said, quietly. “Just stay, for a while.”

Thursday knew what Morse was asking for, and it wasn’t just a drinking companion. He stroked his thumbs over Morse’s long, thin fingers, automatically taking note of the smooth, unlined skin and his own hands marked with age. He wanted time, time to think about this, absorb it, understand it. He needed time to consider what to do next, how to contain this, how to cope with it. Because he surely wasn’t leaving Morse, not now, not like this. But he also had a wife, a family, a job to consider. 

In his mind there was a huge, stony wall, and all the reasons why being with Morse like this was wrong lay on one side of it. Morse was a man, young, perhaps damaged beyond repair. Thursday was married, had a family to protect, was Morse’s boss, for god’s sake.

All Thursday had on this side of the wall was Morse’s hand in his, Morse’s great, blue eyes fixed on his. Morse so deep in his heart that rooting him out would kill him now, or at least kill the parts of him that made him of any use to his wife, his family, his job.

He needed Morse, it was as simple as that. And Morse needed him, or at least he did now, while he was still piecing together the shattered parts of his soul. Thursday couldn’t walk away from that, not again. He’d found the strength once, when he’d thought it was best for the lad, but he couldn’t do it again.

“All right,” he said. And was rewarded with the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. His heart clenched in his chest, and although he still didn’t know how he was going to do this, how he could keep Morse and not damage all those other precious things, he knew that he had to try.

888

“It’s not fair to you,” Thursday said, leaning back against the wall, Morse under his arm. They’d moved to the bed but just to sit and hold each other. Other than kicking off their shoes they were both still fully clothed.

Morse didn’t speak, just reached over, pulled himself tighter to Thursday’s side.

“You deserve a whole heart, lad, and I don’t have one to give. So much of it is taken up by my wife, my family.”

“You wouldn’t be you if that weren’t so,” Morse said quietly. 

“I can only give you bits of myself.”

“I’ll take them,” Morse said, and turned to smile up at him. “It’s more than I have now.”

“It’s not enough,” Thursday said heavily. 

“It’s everything.” Morse’s heart was in his eyes. “You asked me once, where I thought I’d be in twenty years. Well, I know where I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be filled with regret that I didn’t take the chance on this, on us, in these moments we can snatch together. Maybe it’s not perfect, but then, what is?”

“You deserve more.”

“People don’t get what they deserve in life,” Morse said, shadows in his eyes now. “We both know that. But if we fight hard enough maybe we can have something, some joy, something real.”

“It can never touch the other parts of our lives.”

“I know. I wouldn’t want it to.”

“And when you need… If you need to stop, you say so, all right? Promise me that.”

“I promise,” Morse said. “If you promise the same.”

Thursday shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “The only thing that could make me leave now is if you told me to go.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to the corner of Morse’s lips. “Why don’t you close your eyes, get some sleep? You lost a bit of blood today, you look worn out.”

“Ok, but if I go to sleep don’t leave without waking me, all right?”

Fred cupped Morse’s lean cheek and stroked a tender thumb over the shadow under his eye. “I don’t like to wake you when you’re sleeping,” he said tenderly.

“I don’t like to wake up and find you gone,” Morse said, another sad memory in his eyes.

“All right, love,” Fred said.


End file.
